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"I am sorry. I am sorry for everything. I wish it could have been different, and I wish I could have seen the play — so much. My heart breaks. I really wanted to see the play."
✦ ✦ ✦
Azune had just agreed to accompany Bolaire back to his apartment and was now being taken momentarily away by Julien, who wanted to give him Ingrid Einfasen's great axe.
With Bolaire's earlier apology and confession still ringing in his ears, Halandil took this opportunity to approach Bolaire:
"I will ask you this because I feel you would not ask me yourself — because you think I would refuse or do it out of pity: Bolaire, we might not see each other again for a while. May I accompany you to your apartment and help you before you leave?"
Bolaire stayed there dumbfounded for a moment and would have cried if he could shed tears at all.
He nodded, and Hal made a gesture signifying he would take care of the communication with Azune.
They walked back together to the Rookery and talked about the play from a more personal perspective, with Bolaire asking questions upon questions about how the audience reacted to some of the dramaturgical moments they had been discussing these past weeks.
When they arrived, Bolaire sat in the most comfortable chair in the living area and dropped the mask, releasing a delighted Misha, who took no time to start raving to Hal about what an amazing host Bolaire was — talking about this amazing theatre, a beautiful stage dressed in rich, dark red curtains and warm light.
This gave Hal an idea. He took a breath and put on the mask.
He found himself sitting in a theatre. Third row, middle seat — the producer's favourite spot. Next to him, the version of Bolaire he had known all these years, the "uncle" to his children. He looked at Hal expectantly, gauging his reaction before saying anything.
Hal interjected before he could speak:
"Misha just regaled me with how you've been showing him some pieces here. Bolaire, can I show you KoTher'ai here?"
As this sentence pierced through him like electricity, for the first time, Bolaire learnt that in the theatre of his mind, he was able to shed tears.
Halandil Fang took this as his cue and, with an instinct that he was being allowed to take control of the show, the small, warm theatre transformed into a saturated version of the Hallowed Rounds. The ceiling opened up to reveal an early evening sky. A mostly faceless audience surrounded them now, but the crowd noise was at comfortable levels. A warm breeze embraced them both. The stage lights were dimmed and he could hear the echo of Olgud's enthusiastic voice from the stand, making last-minute sales before the show started.
He let Bolaire soak in the anticipating atmosphere for a moment and then triggered the start of the play.
What a privilege, to watch the show from the audience's perspective and not from the wings. He allowed himself to soak in the work of the last weeks and, most importantly, of tonight.
There was an eerie quality to the show in this place — a very personal level of interpretation added to the real beauty of the craftsmanship of his crew, an additional layer of vibrancy, as if Hal could envelop the most important moments in an additional layer of intention.
Next to him, Bolaire was mostly silent but gasped or laughed at all the right places, his gaze glued to the stage.
Lash's fateful moment started to approach. Bolaire could feel it too and was now leaning forward, on the literal edge of his seat.
Hal mimicked him, not wanting to miss his reaction, and let his shoulder lean against Bolaire's.
When the spirit of Vokjan Murzat appeared, Hal heard Bolaire stifle a sob, and his own eyes welled up too. Not sure if to comfort his friend or himself, he took Bolaire's hand in his.
Bolaire responded by leaning deeper into his shoulder and holding his hand tight.
The rest of the first part of the show was a spectacle of ethereal, healing beauty.
When intermission came, Hal let the dim ruckus of applause play around them but turned his face to take Bolaire in.
This time, Bolaire was the first to talk:
"Hal, darling, you brilliant man. This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Thank you. Thank you so much. For everything."
Squeezing Bolaire's fingers affectionately in response and with a warm smile, he triggered the second part of the show.
They leaned back in their seats for the second half, fingers still laced as if to ground themselves in this space where theatre craftsmanship, colours, music and spirits swirled on stage and around them.
Hal could feel that the tragedy of the second half was hitting a little closer to home for Bolaire right now. He could feel him thinking, withdrawing into himself, so he amped up the colours a little brighter, the music a little louder, and squeezed his hand once more to bring him back to the play.
"Look! and tell me — don't your eyes not see a free world, breaking, just beyond the horizon. Look, look!", yells a betrayed, mutilated Murzat, and then much quieter, "You'll see, one day…"
And then the poetic sequence of the end: this divine ritual of art and healing — the last whispered words resonating in the amphitheatre, a falcon flying in the sky, thunder and lightning brewing on the horizon, buried in the roar of the emboldened audience.
Hal let the roar fade away slowly, and the room faded slowly back into Bolaire's theatre.
Out of breath, and to give himself time to gather his thoughts, Bolaire finally let go of Hal's hand and conjured a bottle of wine.
"Hal… this —", he gestured to the space around them, meaning the piece, but also Hal's presence in the theatre of his mind, "is a gift that I hope to be able to repay one day. I have broken your trust, I have ruined our friendship, I have —"
"I think we already agreed that my brother is responsible for that," Hal interrupted, with a hint of annoyance. "You don't owe me anything. If any repayment is needed, it is from me to you. When you were at your lowest, I wasn't there for you. These last days, I have been angry. I felt betrayed. I am still coming to terms with the fact that these emotions are not directed at you, but at what was taken from us."
Hal took a long sip of the rich red wine before continuing.
"I miss… us. And where, a week ago, it seemed like what we had was lost forever, you've proven time and again since then that you are truthful now, and you've shown in so many ways who you really are. What you've done for Misha today helped me really understand how you work — the entity behind it — and this entity is still my friend. I trust you, and I trust what you do with what you are."
With that, Hal put his free hand on Bolaire's shoulder, as if to put more weight behind his last statement.
Bolaire leaned into the touch and rested his cheek against Hal's hand.
In this place, in Bolaire's theatre, the mask felt warm — slightly too warm, as if he were blushing.
"I've missed you so, so much," Bolaire's words came out strangled and breathless. "There is so much I can tell you now, so much more we can discuss — there are decades of beauty that I want to share with you, that I want to show you."
"And you will," Hal turned his hand to cup Bolaire's cheek. The contact felt like an anchor, like a vow to honour despite the distance that would separate them come sunrise.
"Tell me, Bolaire, what's happening in the real world right now? How much time has passed?"
Bolaire straightened without breaking contact. "Time flows differently here, like in dreams. It must be half an hour since you put me on — we are still sitting in your office. We will have to move to my apartment soon, if you're still up for it." Hal nodded affirmatively, and Bolaire paused a moment before continuing.
"…Would you like some rest, or… do you want to come with me?"
Hal stood as his answer, finally breaking contact but feeling instantaneously awkward, because standing up changed nothing here. He gave a resolute nod, to which Bolaire answered with a cheeky smile.
The theatre faded away and he was back in his office, but he could still feel the slight pressure of the mask against his face. Out of raw curiosity, he looked at himself in the mirror, only to be greeted by his own image.
"I hope this won't be too uncanny for you. I will be there as a voice in your head — I won't control your movements until you explicitly tell me to."
Hal had expected Bolaire's voice to come from outside his body, like a whisper close to the ear, and was slightly disappointed by the lack of intimacy.
"Oh, darling, I have to warn you — I can hear that." Bolaire's lilt was warm and teasing. It was Hal's turn to blush.
Hal made his way to Bolaire's apartment, following the voice's instructions since he had never been there. He was slightly giddy on the journey — this felt like a mission even more secret than all the scheming of the last few days. Because this was Bolaire's and his alone.
Entering Bolaire's apartment was like entering a well-curated exhibition. The whole ensemble was harmonised, the gestures bold and decided, but when Hal started looking at the details, his breath got ragged.
Every artwork on the walls, every book and trinket on featured displays — they all resonated with him. Not from their beauty, but from recognition.
Painters they had talked about. Books recommended by him. Gifts from him.
Bolaire Lathalia had built his home around Halandil Fang.
Not out of obsession, but because the personality he had built in Dol Makjar was so heavily connected to him and their friendship.
And this home, their friendship — it was so beautifully curated it broke his heart. This man — this entity — had made himself a haven far away from the abuse of his brother, a place where deception and lies had no place. This was a version of Bolaire who had compartmentalised his life so thoroughly that nothing else but Hal remained. He moved through the apartment slowly now, not helping yet, just witnessing. A book spine here. A small painting there. Each object a quiet declaration. And it made him wonder what this home would look like, if Thjazi had never come across the mask's real identity.
Before Bolaire could try to justify or apologise for any emotion Hal was feeling, he began to speak to the room quietly.
"You deserved none of that. What he did to you… I see what you built here, and I see why you built it, and it was real and it was yours even if I was the occasion for it. You gave freely. That is not the same as being taken from."
Bolaire gave Hal a mental nudge and Hal found himself back in the warm-lit theatre, sitting across from Bolaire at a small bistro table on stage — a table eerily similar to the one at the café they always went to. The wine glasses from earlier were on the table, refilled.
Bolaire looked straight at him, leaning forward, but not touching him.
"And now it is over. The home, the person that I've built for years — it is all over. And what haunts me, what terrifies me about the journey ahead is this burning question: who am I, if not what Thjazi made me? And who am I, if not who I built for you?"
The silence held for a moment. Then, quietly, almost to himself: "He taught me that what I am is only useful to others. That existing, for me, means being used." He let out a breath that was not quite a laugh. "I have spent so long carrying that as if it were simply… true."
Hal tried to take a deep breath and felt his throat contract with emotion.
"The museum, your home, your personality and your tastes — you chose them. Everything here, you chose and curated and it's beautiful. That's not the same thing as what he did to you, and your choices exist even outside of our friendship. All that you accomplished this week was yours, and it mattered, even now that the city has to lose you for a while. And even if we now know that my brother is not completely gone, he cannot blackmail you anymore."
To emphasise his next words, and to take the time to choose them carefully, Hal took Bolaire's trembling hand in his once more.
"You were made with that knowledge of yourself — as a weapon, as a tool. That was given to you before you had any say. But you were already asking what else you might be. You were already in the middle of finding out. And he took that moment from you and used it against you for years. He knew what you were. He knew you were vulnerable, and he chose to exploit that rather than protect it. That's the part that was unforgivable — not what you are, but what he did with the knowledge of what you are."
A single, dry sob escaped Bolaire. Hal held his hand a little tighter and said nothing for a moment.
"You have said earlier that you have lost everything. But I want to offer you another way to see it: this 'everything' is what Thjazi held above your head to manipulate you. It was never freely yours while he held it. And now — you were already on a journey to find out who you are; he merely interrupted it. That journey is still yours. He doesn't get to keep it."
Hal paused, then said more quietly: "I also want to say something about what's coming. I know you will have to travel with Julien. I know what that means — the potential threat of my brother's shadow." He didn't look away. "I can't promise it won't be hard. But you won't be carrying that burden alone."
"I have the utmost confidence that you will find out who you are," Hal continued, squeezing Bolaire's hand once more. "And I know that this version of you — whoever he turns out to be — will still be my dear friend, and family to my children."
Bolaire was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was smaller than Hal had ever heard it.
"You don't need me to be resolved about any of this, do you? You'll still be here even if I don't — even if I can't —"
"I'll still be here," Hal said simply. "You don't have to know who you are yet. You're allowed to find out slowly."
Bolaire looked at him for a long moment, and then — very deliberately — reached out and adjusted the angle of the single candle on the bistro table between them, as if settling something into its proper place.
It was a small thing. A nothing thing.
But it was his.
As if to honour that, Hal let the walls melt gently into the warm and inviting atmosphere of their old haunt — their secret hideout where they had shared so much good wine, and so much beauty.